Midwinter Waking
by Significant Owl
Summary: Sometimes, winter brings change. HarryCho. Written for the Dear Santa fic exchange.


**Midwinter Waking**

_this is my mistake; let me make it good_

***

First snowfall. There was a ritual about it, almost: a whooping, hollering, snowflakes-on-the-tongue (and down the robe, and smashed in the face) sort of thing. Much of Hogwarts gathered in the main courtyard - seventh years and firsts, professors and staff, ghosts and other assorted spirits - to join the festivities in one way or another.

Harry stood apart from the crowd, slightly to the side, letting an old stone wall block the worst of the wind and the wet. Ron was chasing Hermione around a pillar, snowball in hand; it took a very short time for the redhead to catch up and slip the snow down her back. Hermione opened her mouth to protest even more quickly, but Ron silenced her with a kiss on the lips.

Harry turned to leave, thinking of grabbing a mug of cocoa from Dobby before his next class, and suddenly found that he was not the only one watching from this particular part of the sidelines. 

He would have much rather been alone.

Cho was just a step away, not looking at him, but at his two best friends. Her cheeks were red from the cold, soft white crystals were trapped in her dark hair, and she was, as always, beautiful.

He hadn't been actively avoiding her for the past few months. He'd just been busy in places that weren't near her table in the Great Hall, or the corner of the library she and her friends liked best, or the Quidditch pitch after a Ravenclaw practice.

She stirred, and spoke. "Oh."

"Yeah." He thought _I told you so,_ but kept that to himself.

"How long. . .?"

"Forever?" Harry suggested. "But officially, a few weeks."

She glanced at him, then back at Ron and Hermione. "Oh."

Harry began edging away. Perhaps she was done. Perhaps someone would call his name or hit him with a snowball or do _something_ to rescue him.

"I was a useless girlfriend," Cho said abruptly, turning to face him for the first time.

"You were," Harry agreed, following his words up with a good mental smack. "Er -what I mean is -"

"It's okay. It's true." 

"I wasn't much of a boyfriend, either," Harry offered.

"No, you weren't." Cho smiled. "We may have just been the most pathetic couple at Hogwarts, come to think of it." She fidgeted with the clasp on her cloak, twisting it this way and that. "But you know - we never tried being friends."

Harry didn't speak for a long moment. He was too busy thinking of mistletoe and tears, of Cedric's blank face and Marietta's spotty one. He remembered something of anger, and confusion, and the way his entire mind and body would get caught up in thinking and feeling until there was nothing else left.

"No," Harry said, finally. "But maybe we should."

***

It proved rather quiet, as friendships went.

Cho didn't say much, and Harry said less. But sometimes she would smile at him across the Great Hall, or squeeze his arm when they passed in the corridor, and that was nice. And some Saturday mornings he'd wake to find her owl perched on his blanket, bearing a slightly worn copy of _Quidditch Illustrated_ in its claws. He would spend a happy hour reading the articles and her comments in the margins before Ron woke up and the magazine went under the pillow.

It was a bit secret, too.

Partly because it was simply easier not to mention; and after all, there was very little _to_ mention. Even more because he didn't want to hear about it. . . didn't want to hear Ron reciting a litany of Cho's faults, or Hermione attempting to sensitively probe his feelings with questions he couldn't answer _(Do you still like her, Harry? Will this make you happy, Harry?)_, or anything at all.

And it appealed to that part of Harry that liked a good secret, that felt a rush of pleasure from knowing something that no-one else did, from having something that no-one else had. And for once it wasn't a matter of life, or death, or the fate of the world as he knew it. 

Nice.

***

_Crunch. Crunch. Crunch._

The snow was deep, and he and Cho walked through it silently, brooms slung over their shoulders. Harry knew why he'd been wandering the corridors on a beautiful Saturday afternoon: he hadn't cared about going to Hogsmeade with the others, and certainly not about doing his Potions essay. He thought he knew why she had been doing the same; he'd gathered, from some of Dean's cursing and kicking of furniture, that Ginny and Michael had patched things up after Ravenclaw's recent surprise win over Slytherin.

He wondered how Cho had liked being a stand-in. A substitute.

Suddenly, he felt more inclined to make conversation.

"You reckon this counts as consorting with the enemy?" 

"No, silly," Cho said, flashing a smile. "We're just _flying._ It's not like you're showing me top-secret Gryffindor moves." She paused. "Unless you want to, that is." 

Harry grinned. "Not on your life. But, fair warning, I shall be making a full study of your flying habits, for intelligence purposes."

She rolled her eyes. "Like you need intelligence to beat me."

"Hey," Harry replied, mounting his broom, "I think I'm offended."

It was a good day for flying. Cold, but beautifully clear, the sort of day when it was easy to believe that if he flew high enough, he could see forever. The sun was dazzling, for midwinter, and it reflected off snow that was an impossible, spell-perfect white.

They swooped and dove and spiraled above the pitch for hours, sometimes chasing a Snitch, sometimes not. There was little to say beyond "Watch this!" and "Can you do that?" and Harry found himself enjoying the quiet companionship. He and Cho flew until the sky was streaked with red and Harry could see the first packs of students making their way back along the road from the village. 

Harry touched down onto the Quidditch stands and set to defrosting his freezing fingers. Cho landed lightly beside him and, with a wave of her wand, warmed the bench enough so that they might sit.

"Thanks for spending the afternoon with me, Harry. I had fun."

"Yeah," he said, "me too." He hugged his arms to his chest, looking at the pitch below. With Cho here beside him, it was too easy to remember it on a hot June night, tangled hedges reaching to a dark, dark sky. He sighed, waiting for her thoughts to take the same turn. Waiting for the tears.

Cho broke the silence. "You all right? I didn't wear you out, did I?"

"No," Harry said, surprised. "Not at all."

"Good." She took a deep breath. "Harry oh, this is stupid. Forget it." 

"What is?"

She lifted her hands helplessly. "Talking to you. Trying to get you to talk to me. I know you don't want to, _I_ wouldn't want to if I were you. . ."

"I like to talk about Quidditch," Harry said, deliberately missing the point.

"I know." She gave him a watery smile. "I don't know about a lot of things," she gestured towards his forehead, "but there are some things I understand. Too well. And perhaps I'm wrong, but sometimes when I look at you, this year. . . I get the feeling you could use someone who does. That's all." 

Harry swallowed. "You could be right."

She reached out and took his hand, and he let her, twining his fingers around hers. And maybe she was. Maybe if they talked, maybe if they listened, they'd find something real, and understand each other better than his fourteen-year-old self ever could have imagined. 

And maybe not. 

But it might be nice to try.

***

A/N: Written for Cynthia Black, as part of the Dear Santa (www.livejournal.com/users/dearsanta) fic exchange. Title is from a poem by Philip Larkin; lyrics by R.E.M.


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